


Eye of the Beholder

by ChicxulubZero



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 06:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15624147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChicxulubZero/pseuds/ChicxulubZero
Summary: Sherlock is cute.





	Eye of the Beholder

The entire situation was absolutely insufferable. _He_ was the one who had figured out that the _mature women_ (John had elbowed him in the ribs for saying _old ladies_ ) were the unlikely culprits behind the string of high-profile dog-nappings (who paid twenty-thousand pounds for a _dog_?), even though he would have thought that would be patently obvious to _anyone_. All of the signs were right in front of their noses, like they _always were_.

But now, here they were, looking through the one-way mirror of the interrogation room– John Watson, Gary Lestrade, Molly Hooper (for God knew what reason since there were no corpses involved) and a rookie cop named Denise-the one who had actually made the collar.

The elderly women were refusing to talk, to anyone except the “cute one.”

“Who are you talking about?” the officer with them asked.

“The cute one, you know . . .the one with the long curly hair and the big eyes.”

John was taking a sip of his coffee and choked on it.

“Yes,” said one of the other women. “Holmes is his name. He’s darling.”

“Precious,” the third woman added.

The officer shook his head and exited the room to where they were standing.

He looked over the assembled crime fighters and Sherlock felt eyes fall on him.

“I guess it’s you they want to talk to,” he smirked. “The _cute_ one.”

Sherlock huffed at that. “I am not a _kitten_. I am a grown man and I am _hardly_ cute.”

John was no help. “You are a little, actually,” he said.

Annoyed, Sherlock turned to Lestrade.

“I always thought so,” the DI winked.

Denise looked him up and down. “ _Totes adorbs_ ,” she grinned.

Sherlock had no idea what language that even was, but apparently Molly understood it, because she covered her mouth to hide her giggles.

For once, he wished Sally Donaldson was there. She hated him. She would say something mean, and he could ignore it.

The interrogation did not go well. He tried to be as terse and abrupt as possible, but those _old ladies_ just giggled like 12-year-olds. He was obviously not being taken seriously. They didn't even care when he called them idiots. They just laughed and called him a brat. To his face. Talk about _rude!_ He finally gave up and left the room.

"Cute interview," Denise remarked as he headed for the nearest exit.

An hour later, he was back at 221B. Mrs. Hudson was puttering around doing _whatever_ in the entryway and he almost ran into her when he stepped through the door.

“Oh, hello, dear,” she said absently.

“Mrs. Hudson . . . ,“ he began, then stopped.

“Yes?”

“Do you think I’m . . . _cute_?”

“Why, Sherlock, dear boy, what an odd question!” she laughed. But before he had a chance to be embarrassed at his own stupid remark, she gently patted his cheek affectionately and added. “Of course you are.”

He turned away and stomped up the stairs. It was just too, too much. _Really_.

\+ + +

John wondered if Sherlock had noticed that he’d left him behind at the station. He’d learned not to take such things personally. Luckily, Greg had dropped him off.

His flat mate had questions for him.

“Why?” Sherlock asked as soon as John had his coat off.

The vagueness of the inquiry didn’t surprise John. Sherlock often expected telepathy from him. “Why what?” he asked casually.

“Why am I cute?”

John frowned. Sometimes – often, to be honest - he really had no idea where the hell Sherlock was coming from.

Sherlock sighed, annoyed. “At the station. You said I was cute.”

John mentally kicked himself. He should know better than to tease Sherlock. The man invariably failed to understand it. Maybe he could get out of it easily. “I was just agreeing with everyone else.”

That worked for about a nano-second.

“Explain,” Sherlock prodded.

John sighed. There was no point in trying to skirt around it. Sherlock would just hound him mercilessly until he got his answers. Besides, Sherlock _was_ sort of . . . well . . . _appealing_ – in his own way. John was actually quite fond of him. He decided to opt for the direct approach and get it over with.

“Well . . .” he stroked his chin thoughtfully, “there’s the eyes. You’ve very nice eyes.” Sherlock blinked, with those eyes that indeed were rather amazing. He continued, “And the hair . . . I imagine it makes you look . . . well, you know how most people like fluffy things . . . “

“ _Fluffy!_?” Sherlock scowled in a most derisive (and slightly threatening) manner, absently tugging at his dark curls. John hoped that would be the end of the discussion, but of course, it wasn’t. “Go on,” Sherlock prodded.

“Well . . . you just look . . . a bit . . .” John hesitated, searching for the word.

“A BIT WHAT?” Sherlock raised his voice impatiently.

“You know . . . delicate . . . not _macho_.”

“I most certainly am _NOT_!” Sherlock protested.

“Delicate, or macho?”

“NEITHER!”

John seized the opportunity. “Well, there we are, then.”

When he saw no further comment was forthcoming, Sherlock pointed out, “You’re useless, John. Bloody _useless_!”

John was fine with that. He felt like he’d dodged a bullet. “So, tea?”

**_Sometime later:_ **

Sherlock stood staring at his reflection in the full-length mirror John had installed for reasons known only to him. He suspected it was to admire himself (what other reason could there be?).

At Sherlock's request, Mycroft has procured a set of weights for him, and he’d been diligent about working out with them even though it was so hideously tedious that he was often tempted to drop one on his foot because a compound metatarsal fracture would be infinitely less dull.

John had suggested that Sherlock accompany him on his morning cycling routine, but that was entirely out of the question, because he was never, ever going to admit to John that he didn’t know how to ride a bicycle. Motorcycles were one thing – they propelled themselves. Bicycles were just baffling. He’d never hear the end of it. He let John think he’d opted for running instead. Besides, he rather did like to run. Just not the way his tee-shirt inevitably ended up soaked all the way through with sweat, so that he had no choice but to take it off and do the last ten minutes or so without it. England was having a real summer that year, with sun . . . so he’d managed to actually get a bit of a tan.

Working out and running made him hungrier than he usually was. He didn’t understand why John (and almost everyone else) thought he never ate. He was fast and fit, with more than stamina than John had, and he almost never got sick - all of which would not be possible if he was in fact starving. Still, the increase in caloric intake had bumped his weight up about a stone. John had remarked that it appeared to be all muscle mass and pointed out that Sherlock now had biceps, pecs and abs, which was a demonstrably ludicrous comment in and of itself because _everyone_ had biceps, pecs and abs . . . The difference being that now, when his shirt was off, he could plainly _see_ his.

He had practiced a squinty glare intended to make his eyes less noticeable, which had resulted in John making an appointment with an optometrist to make sure he didn’t need spectacles (he didn’t). He’d slicked his hair back with some kind of product Molly had recommended. It took out most of the curl and caused his hair to lie flat against his scalp. Not altogether unattractive, but it just didn’t look like his hair, and he _liked_ his hair.

John had been surprised when he’d grown a full beard – as if his flat mate had assumed that wasn’t even possible. He hadn’t really cared for it, though. Things got stuck in it and it made his face hot, so he’d shaved off all except the mustache and chin, and then neatly trimmed that.

So now, here was this unfamiliar person staring back at him, the newly reinvented Sherlock Holmes. Except now he looked an awful lot like the guy in that ridiculous movie John had forced him to watch. All he needed was that glowy green thing and the red cape (although, admittedly, having the ability to levitate and manipulate time _would_ be profoundly excellent).

But, just one word came to his mind as he stood there, and that was . . .

_NOPE._

First order of business, he marched into the loo and got rid of the beard. The whole thing. Gone like it was never there.

Then, he opened the window and one at a time, dropped the weight set onto the bins below where they predictably collapsed the thin plastic lids before falling inside with loud _thuds_. He only had the two heaviest ones left when Mrs. Hudson’s voice called out from downstairs.

_“Sherlock, love, whatever it is you’re doing probably needs to stop soon.”_

He looked at the last two weights with just a twinge of remorse. When Mycroft had brought them, he could barely lift those two, let alone casually fling them out the window like he was about to do. Oh well, they were _boring_ , they deserved it. “Last ones!” he called out to Mrs. Hudson, as the weights hit the bin with a most satisfying and spectacular _crash_.

He then transferred his emergency cigarette stash to the trainers he’d be using to run. They were the ankle-high type and did the job much more efficiently than the old pair had. They, at least, were useful for something.

Lastly, he stuck his head under the kitchen tap and washed all of the product out, realizing too late that he probably should have grabbed a towel before doing that. No matter. He just let the water drip over his shoulders. It wasn’t like he didn’t have plenty of shirts. He’d had to get new ones because his previous ones had gotten too snug, although, he thought with satisfaction, that probably wasn’t going to last now that the weight set was in the rubbish bin.

He dried off his hair, changed, then checked the mirror again. The Sherlock who stared back at him was the one he _knew_. They smiled at each other.

His phone buzzed. It was Grant Lestrade. The police were out of their depth again.

He pulled on his coat and took one last look in the mirror. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes, and he would henceforth absolutely refuse to be _cute_.

The crime scene was a bit removed from Lestrade’s usual territory, so some of the constabulary gathered there were unfamiliar to him, except for Denise-whatever whom he recognized from the dognapping case. She and another female constable were talking . . . about him, it turned out.

“Yeah, I hear they have called in a 'consulting detective' - whatever that is."

"I know him, I think," Denise replied. "He works with DI Lestrade sometimes."

"Holmes is his name. Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yep. . . . That’s him over there,” Denise nodded in his direction, and then giggled. “The sexy one.”


End file.
